


The King is Dead.  Long Live the King.

by indiefic



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dethroning the old King was one thing.  Keeping the new King where he needs to be is another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King is Dead.  Long Live the King.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miarr/gifts).



> I used tons of source material including: Alix Lambert's film "Mark of Cain"; Steve Knight's original screenplay for Eastern Promises; a Russian transliteration site; and as always, wikipedia and google. I apologize for the Russian transliteration as I'm relying solely on internet sources.

Kirill violently pushed through the wire mesh door and into the room, startling several bystanders.  Nikolai looked up, unsurprised to see the mixture of pain, shame and rage on Kirill's face.  Their eyes met for only a moment before Kirill looked away, snarling, "Papa wants to see you."

Slowly, Nikolai pushed away from the wall against which he'd been leaning.  With effortless grace, he navigated through the throngs of people waiting for their visitation times.  He took the few steps to Kirill who was still standing sullenly in the middle of the dingy waiting room.  Nikolai leaned in close - just a little too close - and clapped Kirill on the shoulder.  Nikolai knew Kirill could feel the warm heat of his breath against his neck.  Quietly Nikolai said, "Remember, brother, it is _our_ time."

Kirill moved his head enough to meet Nikolai's gaze.  Slowly, Kirill's beaten dog expression faded.  He chuckled and then smiled broadly, his bravado returning.  "Thunder and lightning," he said loudly, grasping Nikolai'a arm just a shade too tightly before heading for the exit.

Nikolai watched him go, face expressionless.  Turning, he slid his sunglasses into place and crossed the room to the front desk.  On the other side of the dirty glass, the young woman addressed him without looking up.  "Inmate?"

  
***

The hallway was austere; ugly, cheap linoleum tile and whitewashed cinderblock walls.  Everything smelled faintly of piss and disinfectant.  Compared to the dilapidated horror of Russian prisons, it was a palace.  It was better than Semyon deserved.  Soon enough, that would change.  Semyon would find his reward.

Wordlessly, Nikolai followed the guard.  They stopped at the third in a series of heavy steel doors.  The guard pulled the door open and motioned Nikolai inside with a look of undisguised loathing.  There was a time not so long ago when Nikolai could move around this country in relative anonymity.  But those days were gone.  Between that former FSB fuck Litvinenko being poisoned with polonium mere steps from the Trans-Siberian Restaurant and several recent crackdowns by the Metropolitan Police on human trafficking rings, Nikolai's ability to go unnoticed was a thing of the past.  But being recognizable had its own set of perks.  Nikolai knew that beneath the man's veneer of disgust was fear.  That was the reaction most people had toward him now.  That was the reaction he wanted. 

Nikolai ignored the man's expression, stepping into the tiny visiting room.  It was little bigger than a closet with a single stool bolted to the floor directly in front of a small Plexiglas window.  The smell of piss was stronger.  Removing his sunglasses, Nikolai sank down onto the stool and dispassionately picked up the antiquated telephone receiver.  On the other side of the Plexiglas, Semyon was already holding his receiver.  _"Dajte vashim detjam slishkom mnogo svobody i vy terjaete vashi", _the old man said with a smile that was little more than a baring of yellowed teeth.

Nikolai pursed his lips together in a hard smirk.  _Give your children too much freedom and you lose your own_.  The words of old Russian proverb were true enough where Semyon was concerned, but it implied a kindness or indulgent nature that the old bastard certainly didn't possess.  Semyon's only son, Kirill, and Semyon's youngest daughter, Christine, were indeed his downfall, but not because the _vor_ spoiled either of them.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights on the other side of the Plexiglas, Semyon looked old, frail.  Gone was the charming grandfatherly facade he used as proprietor of the Trans-Siberian Restaurant and in its place was the enraged, dethroned _mafiya_ king.  This was Semyon's pitiful attempt to reassert his power.  It wouldn't work.

"What do you want?" Nikolai asked impatiently.

Semyon narrowed his eyes predatorily.  "Were you _unizhano_ in _the crosses_?" he baited.  "Is that why my own son betrayed me for you?  Because you treat him like a woman?  Like a whore?"

Nikolai stared blandly through the Plexiglas, expression shuttered.

Semyon chuckled darkly, his rheumy eyes glittering in the light. 

"You're being deported," Nikolai said dryly.  "The White Swan."  A small smile curved his lips and he relished the sobering of Semyon's expression.  "Times change," he mused.  "Progress."  He smiled.  "Drug resistant TB.  Thieves with no tattoos.  Police with no uniforms."

Semyon was quiet.

Nikolai sighed.  "_Dosvedania_, Semyon."  He hung up the receiver and rose from the stool.

***

Had Nikolai become the man he promised Yuri?  Was he the real power behind Kirill's throne?  Perhaps.  But his cynical Russian nature required that he consider that he was merely Rasputin - influential but ultimately doomed to fail.  He sighed, running his fingers over the worn worry beads.  The beads were made of melted cigarette lighters, crafted by desperate men in St. Petersberg's Kresty prison.  Those men needed something to hang on to.  Anything to hang on to.  They did whatever was necessary to try and bring their lives meaning.  It was the same desperation that drove them to use tattoo guns made of pens and electric razors to permanently etch their life stories into their flesh with ink made of the burned boot soles and piss.  He had thought he understood that desperation.  He had studied them so closely, lived among them for a time.  But now, surrounded by the opulence his new role afforded him, he was beginning to feel closer to those men than ever before. 

What he truly feared was that he wasn't Rasputin, but rather King Pyrrhus of Epirus.  He would win this war, but the cost of victory would destroy him completely.

Nikolai pocketed the worry beads and picked up his glass.  He contemplated his role, swirling the ice cold vodka around in his glass before tossing it back in one swallow, relishing the cold burn of the alcohol against his throat.  His words to Yuri only three months ago haunted him.  _If they terminate the operation now, they will be wasting this. You tell the Russian desk you saw stars over my heart. OK? Tell them I'm through the door.  _He could almost feel the stars burning his skin beneath the expensive egyptian cotton shirt.  What would Irina think if she could see him at this moment?  Would she recognize him?  Or would she tell him that her Mikhail was finally dead?  He truly did live in the zone, just as he told that circle of vampires on that cold December night.

In the distance, Nikolai heard the front door to the Trans-Siberian being thrown open and then the inevitable stumbling that hailed Kirill's drunken arrival.  Kirill forged through the entryway and into the main dining room where NIkolai waited.  Kirill was flanked, as usual, by Illyas, the queer Chechen who Kirill hired six weeks ago.  Nikolai watched Illyas dispassionately.  Truth told, he never underestimated just how dangerous the young man could be.  Illyas claimed to be an orphan, not associated with any of the Chechen gangs.  Whether or not that was true was the least of Nikolai's worries.  More dangerous was the fact that Illyas was a heroin addict and openly homosexual.  In order for NIkolai to retain his position of power and influence, he couldn't afford for Kirill's attentions to be diverted or for Kirill to end up dead from an overdose.

Nikolai put his glass down on the table.  "_Mal'chik_."

Illyas bristled at the pejorative, glaring at Nikolai.  But the boy was smart enough to hold his tongue.

Kirill looked from Nikolai and then back to Illyas, snickering at Nikolai's show of power.  Nikolai knew well that Kirill enjoyed having his ego stroked with these little skirmishes between himself and Illyas.

"Go get us good brandy," Nikolai ordered the boy.  As Illyas sullenly headed for the kitchen, Nikolai continued.  "_Good_ brandy.  Not that piss in the cellar.  Go see the fat German."

If looks could kill the one Illyas gave NIkolai  would have murdered with deft efficiency.  Nikolai's face remained expressionless, bored.

"Go on!" Kirill yelled gleefully, showing his ever fickle nature and turning like a viper on the young man.  "Get!  You heard the man!  Brandy!"

Kirill was still chuckling as he slid into the chair next to Nikolai.  Illyas left, slamming the front door behind himself in impotent fury.

Kirill leaned over toward Nikolai, swaying drunkenly.  "You don't like the little Chechen, brother."

Nikolai shrugged.  "What's it matter to me?  I just want brandy."

Kirill's smile faded and he pushed himself upright in his own chair again.  "Maybe you should go get the fucking brandy," Kirill swore.

This is how it was.  This is how it had been since the beginning.  Push and pull.  Nikolai knew he would never truly master the art of appeasing Kirill's ego without also piquing his sexual interest.  Illyas was only making that line blurrier and blurrier. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pamper the madman.

Nikolai reached out, gripping Kirill's arm.  "Easy, brother."

Kirill violently shook off Nikolai's grip.  "Don't fucking patronize me," he yelled, rising from his chair, looming over Nikolai.  "With my father in prison, _I_," he hit himself in the chest with a closed fist for emphasis, "am in charge!" 

Nikolai held his hands up in front of himself in a gesture of surrender as he rose to his feet.  "_Da, da_," Nikolai placated.  "You're the boss."

"Damn right," Kirill said, but his rage was bordered with instability, fragility.

Nikolai pressed the advantage, stepping closer to Kirill.  "Your father," he said quietly, again reaching for Kirill's arm.

Again, Kirill shrugged off his touch, but this time it was less angry, more sullen.  His eyes were bloodshot and glassy.  He reeked of booze and stale sweat.  "_Papa_," he said quietly to himself, lost in a tumultuous storm of memories and emotions. 

With a sudden move, Kirill shook his head as if trying to banish ghosts.  He stumbled backward a few steps until his shoulders collided with the wood paneled wall.  He stood there, disheveled.

Nikolai stepped closer, ignoring the stench wafting off Kirill.

Suddenly, Kirill's head shot up and he met Nikolai's gaze, his eyes wide and wild.  "We have to get him out of that place!"

Slowly, Nikolai shook his head.  "He's in prison, Kirill."  He took a deep breath.  "It is done.  Semyon made his bed - "

"Don't you say the name of my father!" Kirill raged, shoving Nikolai.  Nikolai took a small step back, refusing to fight Kirill.  Kirill followed, grabbing handfuls of Nikolai's suit jacket and shaking him once before twisting and shoving him violently into the wall.

Nikolai's head snapped back with the force of his back hitting the wall and his teeth clacked together hard enough that he saw flashes of light behind his eyelids.  He took a deep breath, fighting for control.  The desire to beat the shit out of the drunken fool was tempting, but if he did that, he would destroy everything for which he'd worked so hard.  Slowly he opened his eyes.  Kirill stood before him, swaying, his chest heaving with the force of his breath.  He was barely hanging on to sanity.

They stood there for a long time, eyes locked together.  Kirill was such a mess, so lost, that there were times Nikolai could almost forget what a monster lurked behind those blue eyes.  After years of vainly trying to live up to Semyon's expectations, Kirill was adrift without his father's relentless demands to guide him.  It was only a matter of time before he failed.  They all knew it.

Kirill's breathing finally evened out and he stepped closer, invading Nikolai's space.  He stared down at Nikolai in silence.  In a move that was surprisingly graceful considering how drunk Kirill was, Kirill knelt in front of Nikolai.

They weren't touching, but Nikolai's pulse thrummed at his temples and his mouth felt like it was full of sawdust.  Kirill wanted him, Nikolai had always known that.  He'd exploited that fact from the very beginning.  But so far, nothing had ever progressed beyond innuendo and looks.  So far Nikolai had been able to diffuse the situation with humor.  But there was nothing humorous about Kirill kneeling in front of him.

Kirill looked him in the eyes as his hands slowly reached up, finding Nikolai's hips.  Nikolai sucked in a quick, uncontrollable breath that caused Kirill's face to quirk into a crooked smirk.

Nikolai's heart pounded in his throat, adrenalin pumping through his veins.  His primal reaction to shove Kirill away warred with the logical part of his brain that wasn't willing to give up everything he'd earned - not after all his sacrifice.  It had to be worth something.  He couldn't have left Irina and the children for no reason.  To get this close and then lose ... no that wasn't an option.

He forced himself to think.  He took a deep breath.  Slowly, he reached for Kirill's wrist.

Kirill, misunderstanding, smiled brightly at Nikolai's touch.

Slowly, Nikolai crouched down, not kneeling, but close enough that he could whisper to Kirill.  "A_ vor_ kneels for no one," he said softly.  Kirill's expression immediately went blank and Nikolai knew that rage would soon follow so he gripped Kirill's wrist harder and pointedly scanned the room with his eyes.  He leaned in closer, pressing his face so close to the side of Kirill's head that his lips brushed the shell of Kirill's ear as he spoke.  "People are always watching, brother.  _Always_."

Kirill was still a moment, but then Nikolai could feel as the tremor shuddered through his lanky frame.  With a single, sharp nod, Kirill rose to his feet, Nikolai doing the same. 

Kirill snorted loudly, quelling the tears that had threatened earlier.  He raked a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in greasy disarray.  He turned, looking at Nikolai as if nothing of the last several minutes had happened.  "Fuck the brandy," he said with a smile.  "Let's go get a drink."

Nikolai nodded.  "_Da, da_.  I'll drive."

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I apologize for the transliteration of the Russian phrases. I had to use Babelfish to translate from English to Russian and then use a transliteration site to go from the Russian (Cyrillic) to Latin alphabet.
> 
> "Mafiya" is a transliteration of the Russian term for the English word "mafia" or organized crime.
> 
> "unizhano" is transliterated from the Cyrillic унижано which babelfish gave as the translation from the English term "humiliated". I have no faith that is actually the term used in Russian prisons. The English translation is usually given as "downcast" but Babelfish couldn't help me on that one. An inmate who is downcast is one who is a sexual object within prison society. They are often the lowest caste within prison society and it is not unusual for them to be forcibly tattooed with hearts or in some cases, have the word "slave" tattooed in highly visible places such as their faces.
> 
> The Crosses refers to Kresty Prison in St. Petersberg Russia. The Crosses is a colloquial name of the solitary confinement prison. Today Kresty is the preliminary isolation ward of the Main Department of Internal Affairs of St. Petersburg and Leningrad region.
> 
> The White Swan is one of Russia's most notorious maximum security prisons, located in Solikamsk, Russia.
> 
> Drug resistant Tuberculosis (TB) is rampant in the Russian prison systems because of horrific overcrowding. It is not uncommon for a prison cell to house up to ten times the number of inmates for which it was originally specified. Prison infirmaries get shipments of medication infrequently and sporadically. An inmate with TB would start on a round of medication only to have the medication become unavailable before treatment was finished. This bred a particularly virulent strain of TB which is now resistant to drugs. It is estimated that up to 20% of Russian prison inmates suffer from this drug resistant strain of TB.
> 
> A "vor" is a certain class of Russian criminal, from the term "vory v zakone", literally translated as "Thieves in Law". A thief, or vor, is an authoritative individual in the Russian criminal underworld. Thieves in law are the elite of the Russian world of organized crime. Thief in this usage means criminal rather than robber.
> 
> "Dosvedania" is translated as "goodbye".
> 
> Worry beads are threads of beads used to relieve stress or pass the time. They resemble prayer beads but hold no religious significance.
> 
> King Pyrrhus of Epirus was one of the strongest opponents of early Rome. Some of his battles, though successful, cost so much that the victory was actually offset by the losses his army incurred. It is for King Pyrrhus that the term Pyrrhic victory was coined.
> 
> "Mal'chik" according to both babelfish and the Russian transliteration site is the translation/transliteration for the English "boy". Some cursory googling makes it look like there might be a derogatory/homosexual overtone associated with this word, which is actually fine for how I was using it.


End file.
